


Blackbody

by technocouture



Series: Metamorphoses [3]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Character Death, Isolation, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 07:31:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technocouture/pseuds/technocouture
Summary: Taeyong has been alone for two thousand and seven hundred years in space, until another ship arrives in his orbit.





	Blackbody

**Author's Note:**

> This story was fully based off a dream I had, where I didn’t see the events of this story but instead the literal ao3 summary of it. The summary you’ve read comes directly from that dream and I felt like I was tasked to write it by aliens trying to communicate with me! I was also inspired by the lyrics for 7th SENSE while writing this, so please try to keep the MV’s aesthetics as well as the SM_NCT # 2. SYNCHRONIZATION OF YOUR DREAMS in mind while reading! I’d like to apologize in advance because this story is long and complicated and takes itself too seriously so forgive me y’all again for another mess..
> 
> ADDITIONAL WARNINGS for blood, referenced death and referenced suicide. This goes downhill fast.
> 
> happy birthday to my dear gal ellie and happy first tour NCT 127! Let’s have a happy and healthy year together!
> 
> blackbody: an idealized physical body that absorbs all radiant energy falling on it
> 
>  
> 
> brace yourselves

_LOG 1_

_I am saved. The ship has reached the_ outer-space _warp-point with sustainable damage. Power, temperature, oxygen levels and core energy are gradually stabilizing. Gravity should return to normal in approximately 21 hours—though I’m not sure time is felt the same here. I’m not sure this is a place to belong._

_The warp reactor has broken. I’ve set the course to keep advancing—I don’t know where it’s going but it doesn’t matter. I will reprogram the ship immediately. I’ve already disabled all the signals but I decided to leave the clock out in the hall. I can’t lose time… and it’s the least I can do._

 

_It’s so dark._

 

_—_

 

Taeyong is lonely. There was a time he used to think it was what he felt, loneliness, until he understood at some point that it was what he _is_. He _is_ lonely, but if loneliness requires the acknowledgement of others’ absence then Taeyong _is_  absolutely nothing but _alone_. The understanding of company has long lost its meaning and has fully ceased to be comprehensible for him, it’s a time he can’t remember nor imagine anymore. Even the feeling of _contact_ and its very memory ingrained inside the human nature has been made up and erased. It’s finished serving its purpose when he’s finally _one_ against the black void, one against the the total silence, the nothing that’s _everything_. But it’s not this empty space around him that Taeyong suffers, it’s the void instead that grieves his presence; there isn’t _nothing_ because _he_ is there, and he’s alone to bear that responsibility, that fault. He’s an irregularity in the space and in the silence, wandering aimlessly day after day, night after night, time after forgotten time. And his life's an illusion like the rest; space, time, knowledge, feeling — there’s no worth or sense of these things for a man who’s only left with his body and thoughts to keep him aware of himself, keep him aware that he still exists somewhere, sometime, somehow, that he knows it and feels it—and most importantly to remember that he wants to live.

Outer space is how Taeyong keeps remembering it, vast and dark, endlessly consuming and _unstoppable_ , yet the further it stretches, the shorter come the outskirts of his memory. It’s like a black sheet that keeps spreading over a blueprint steadily rolling up. Taking over everything, inch by inch, moment by moment, slowly but surely, inevitably. Taeyong has spent infinite hours gazing at it inside the shiny control deck of this ship. The darkness behind the thick windows never moves, never changes, waiting for him instead to pass, waiting for man’s machine to carry him out of the untouchable reach of creation, waiting for them to disappear from its plane at last. Even when Taeyong tries to look further, to search through the expanse ahead for a glimpse of unlikeliness, a star, a planet, a grain of light—there’s absolutely nothing that will meet his eye.

The lights on the ship however never go out, Taeyong only needs to turn them off when he goes to sleep. He makes his own days and nights, his own time with the bright red numbers of the grand clock out in the hall. It’s so he should survive against the emptiness and the silence; a few shapes and colours to keep wringing his mind, to keep him awake, to not go insane. Because each time he finds himself back inside the brightly-lit control deck, sitting in front of the clear windows and staring out at the black canvas of the unknown universe, he loses himself to it, over and over, again and again.

 

—

 

_LOG 2_

_What time is it? …I’m so exhausted, I can’t focus at all. From the clock’s instruction… it’s been 21 hours and 4 minutes since the ship has been advancing from warp point. It feels like it’s been days—can I even say that anymore? Days, weeks… Is time even real anymore, has it ever been real? Now that I find myself in the expanse of the universe far away from man’s conceptions, I realize our place in this universe. We don’t have one. We’ve never had one—which is why I’m here, I suppose. I’ve been staring at the clock for hours trying to understand. It doesn’t even matter, does it? I feel like the world’s already ended._

_The ship has stabilized and the zone is clear. The equation is safe. I’ve kept it hidden on me for now. In truth, I wish I could destroy it, and forget it, but its permanence is beyond mine. It’s rather ironic, I think—no matter how much it can achieve there can be nothing to outlive it, in the end… This is the universe’s one and last miracle. I ask myself however: is it ever meant to be used? 10 000 years at most, they said… 10 000 years for the last of us, 10 000 years of annihilation, and infinity more if I had surrendered the equation to them. I thought I had something to prove by refusing, that escaping was the right choice to make, that we had done what was right…_

_Or perhaps it was all done out of spite. Perhaps this equation was made for the exact contrary reason of its intended purpose, that it’s to be withheld in aim for the very thing it was needed to prevent. Is… Is this… a sign of God? What am I supposed to do now? Surely… Surely I wanted the evil to end, but by making the world suffer one final time… have I committed the ultimate sin by letting it go die this way?_

 

_I think I’m waiting for that day to come._

 

_—_

 

Everyday Taeyong wakes inside his room on the ship’s first floor, and like everywhere else he’s in the negative, interfering with the emptiness, debasing the long marble floors and walls, and the fluorescent lights tracing the shape of the canopy bed that’s amongst the only things with which Taeyong still feels a string of association, of connection. He wakes up buried under the black sheet, hiding his lithe body from the harsh light that emanates above his head. Sometimes he stays longer in bed, stares at the ceiling, drinks water from the glass on the nightstand, counts the creases on the pillows and the blankets, looks over to the closet and chooses his clothes to wear—sometimes he doesn’t. There’s no use for him in this emptiness to act otherwise.

He goes to the washroom first, turns on the water and washes-up with the soap, and looks at himself in the round mirror. There was a time before during lost years when he still _felt_ lonely that the sight of himself was his only comfort, this reoccurring meeting with his reflection he tried desperately to turn into a stranger, an _other_ , until the _outer-space_ dissolved all his awareness and he couldn’t remember the feeling at all, or what it was to acknowledge it. Now the person he sees in the reflection is just an image of consciousness, with his shell-coloured skin, auburn hair and black eyes, and without this only face under the dimmed light Taeyong wouldn’t be able to believe he still exists. He wouldn’t be able to remember what he looks like or what he just _is—_ lonely or alone, instead of absolutely nothing, and Taeyong knows he can’t be _nothing_. There can’t be nothing if he can still wake up everyday and see himself in the mirror, still alive, still lonely, still alone.

Each morning this sight is a renewed sign of life, a new mark he inputs inside the monitor at the entrance of his room. He presses the black switch on the keyboard and the _click_ resounds, printing a small line on the screen, next to the myriad of others he’s failed to keep count of these last years. He thinks in years, months, weeks, days, minutes and seconds, but only because he still remembers what they are. Only because the grand clock out in the hall is still in function, the bright red numbers glaring at him each instant. It’s a lie, of course, a last display of desperation from his part, _time_ that was once indispensable and that’s now just a trophy of his sanity.

 

There are 18 floors on the ship, and Taeyong knows them like a map in his head. The hall is the ground-level that connects to them all through round open doors. When Taeyong steps inside the narrow marble-built floor, he stares ahead at the dark end of the path, the center space that’s closed in with columns, and without the light from the vaulting the place is so obscured, it’s like he’s gazing into a black hole. Taeyong can only look at it for so long until he feels gone again, and when he turns on the lights and his eyes move away, he forgets a little more each time.

The mess hall is where he eats, a cramped court in one of the hall’s rooms with a catering and cleaning machine. Taeyong’s had a lot of the foods but hasn’t eaten everything.When he eats, each different taste is to remind him of the previous one, to remind him of a day without fail, and this way his memory is a chain on his tongue, coming apart and melting down his throat. He likes fruits and sweets the most, but it’s not as if he isn’t free to choose, or as if he doesn’t have time to decide what he wants. He knows he can do everything he wants, but it’s what makes his desires ineffective; Taeyong doesn’t think about wanting anything, and so he thinks he wants nothing.

After breakfast he returns to the grand clock in the hall. There were long gruelling years in the past when the silence inside the ship obsessed him, when the lightest echo of his footfall was enough to torment him. There used to be a need for sound in the beginning, something familiar to his senses to counter that desolating force, until it died with the rest of his perception. Those years still live in him as a trace of what he always will be—an aberration. Space and silence rule in peace and Taeyong is their only intruder, disrupting that law as he breathes and moves inside it. They surround him always, and sometimes Taeyong feels like he's being watched. Even if he doesn’t remember everything now, he recognizes those silent minutes and hours he spent completely still in front of the clock’s numbers, trying to relinquish himself and be assimilated, each day when he returns and looks at those brightly coloured shapes with all the faith he has left.

But those years are long past, and Taeyong has something else to keep him awake since then. It’s the centrepiece built right below the grand clock and on the sides, wide enclosures in which are made a cutting garden that crosses the length of the hall. It’s been longer than he can remember since he was growing it, all these flower shrubs, grasses, fruit bushes and succulents, raw plants sprouting in the heart of a metal vessel, carried out in the ravine of the universe. Now it’s the biggest and most colourful it’s ever been in his memory. Taeyong tends to this garden like it’s his life; the day he stops caring for it is the day he dies.

He checks the energy panels and redistributes the lighting, adjusting the source machine’s programming as needed. Sometimes he changes the colour and watches the shadows turn on the marble walls. When the hot light shines on the hedges and shrubs, Taeyong walks underneath it and bathes in its warmth beside the blooms. He picks up the red pruning shears from the floor where he leaves them each night and cuts the dead leaves. Everything collected is put in a bucket that he uses to make the fertilizer, where he mixes the water and blends the foods, measuring carefully, painstakingly. He walks back and forth from the garden to the mess hall, and to the water conduit on the opposite wall.

The prize of the garden are the flowers spreading in the center, a whole row of red amaryllises that never fails to captivate Taeyong. Even after all these cruel and unchanging years, the vivid sight of the striking shade of this red in full bloom always makes him feel alive. Makes him feel like there’s another purpose for him, to keep coming back each day, to stare as long as he wants.If the garden is Taeyong’s life then these flowers are his heart—red and motionless, enduring the test of time. He waters and trims the hedges, digs, plants, buries, fills and drains, builds more planters and drills more panels, all while the grand clock in front of him goes on, passing number after number, time after time.

Taeyong doesn’t look too often at the clock. He’ll catch up with it when he feels hungry or tired, but other than that he spends almost all his days cleaning and taking care of the garden. It keeps his body and mind moving, and if he could properly affirm the feeling, it makes him happy. Taeyong likes smelling the sweet scent of the flowers, he likes seeing the drops of water trickle down the petals, he likes touching the stems and barbs, he likes handling the shears in his palm and fingers, he likes feeling the warm light on his skin and hearing the rustle inside the leaves, he likes to make his favourite yogurt drink and sit in front of the amaryllis row, and admire the red flowers turned his way.

Sometimes Taeyong goes on the upper floors of the ship, runs across the hallways, alleys and deck bridge, checks the repair and medical bays, rests in the lounge and visits the library—sometimes he doesn’t. Taeyong doesn’t have a routine but there’s nothing that he can change much either. Like the spaceship his mind has long fallen to a static state. He wanders, astray and waiting. He remembers he used to be scared, he used to feel so much fear and anger, the solitude used to be _agonizing_ but those reasons why he can’t acknowledge anymore—now he simply doesn’t feel at all, it’s like he’s surrendered himself to something. He doesn’t remember what he used to believe in, those singular things he recognized that made him human, a very long time ago. Sometimes it feels like he’s already died before.

It becomes apparent at the end of each day, when he returns to the ship’s control deck on the third floor. The more Taeyong stays in the silence and looks outside those same windows, the more he keeps forgetting, the more he keeps dying. He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back to it. His memory isn’t what it was supposed to be. Sometimes Taeyong thinks he’s not fully conscious of it, like he’s a robot on auto-pilot, unaware of himself. He knows it used to drive him crazy. Maybe he’s already crossed that line of insanity and he’s on the other side now, drifting, in a place where nothing can touch him anymore, where nothing can make him respond. It’s been years, since Taeyong’s spoken out loud.

When he goes back to his room, he turns off the lights and climbs into his bed, slipping under the sheet. The time before he sleeps is the only moment when the loneliness truly resurges, flowing out of his body to surround him like a bind. It used to hurt him so much before, he’s sure of it, but now like everything else Taeyong isn’t aware of it. Things like pain and grief don’t mean anything anymore. Sleep isn’t like Taeyong remembers it either, because he’s forgotten to think about it like eating, breathing, moving, doing, he sleeps and wakes up as it is—actions succeeding each other, no other function alike. He’s stopped thinking about them. He’s alive and life goes on.

Taeyong’s long stopped dreaming, he’s stopped feeling and remembering, but even in the darkest corner of the ship, in the quietest space in the universe, in the most isolated hours of this oblivion in which he roams forever—Taeyong knows he is wholly, utterly and hopelessly lonely.

 

—

 

_LOG 5_

_I feel lost. It’s the_ outer-space _here, I’m sure of it, it’s disturbing us in some way… When I look out the window and see all that darkness, I can’t help but feel so worthless, so defeated. It’s been approximately 27 days from warp point, now. “Time” is passing, the red numbers on the clock keep changing, but there’s absolutely nothing else. It’s so empty here and the lights never go out. There’s too much space on this ship and it’s too silent. It’s maddening, I feel like I’m going to go crazy soon… Even if I’m positive now that I’ve done the right thing by escaping, I still feel so lost, so gone—am I desperate? The food and water on the ship are going to run out at some point. What can I do now?_

_No… I need to focus. I can’t lose sight of what I wanted… What was that again? Life, peace, heaven! A world anew? It’s what I thought we could do with this equation. Can I still see that world in my head now?_

_…_

_I’ve decided. I want to test the equation. It’s my creation after all—I want to see what it can do.I mean, what else is there to do anymore? Let’s test this equation and complete the research, that’ll keep me busy. That’ll keep me awake, that’ll keep me sane…_

_I have an idea for its use. Something small and safe to start, but I need to be careful, to not fall into the very things I feared, and fled from. The equation needs something simple, something harmless—to prove it can do good, and good only. I’m going to do this right. There’s a center space in the hall in front of the grand clock. I’ve synthesized a seed source; I’ll make a garden. This is perfect. I haven’t seen flowers in years._

 

_—_

 

Today Taeyong wakes to the harsh light with a strange pain in his head. The sensation is sudden and so peculiarly distinct that it triggers a memory of the previous time when he felt the same. He doesn’t remember the event but only recognizes the deeply unpleasant feeling. It hurts slightly, but not like a proper headache. The pain hangs at the tip of his nerves, heavy, weighting his skull. Taeyong sits on the sheet and tries to take it in. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s experienced something like discomfort, as like everything else, Taeyong’s body has stopped being familiar to him.

He waits a long time in the room until he can get a hold of himself, but the more time he spends thinking about it, the dizzier he feels. He takes a sip from the water glass on the nightstand and gets up from the bed. He picks his clothes to wear and goes to the washroom. It’s difficult to ignore the ache at the back of his head when there’s nothing else going on in his mind.

It’s perceptibly different than usual when he looks at himself in the round mirror. His appearance hasn’t changed, but Taeyong feels slightly more awake this morning and stares at his face longer. He looks at his awry hair and prods with his fingers the dark strands sprouting and falling. He inches closer to the glass and inspects his lashes, the pores on his skin and the creases around his eye. He spreads his lids with his thumb and index, and peers at the thin red veins spreading in cracks on his sclera. He tilts his head back and bares his teeth, opening and closing his pink mouth.

Taeyong turns on the water and washes his face. When he takes the soap bar and turns it in his hands, his eyes catch the lines on his fingers’ skin that fill with the white of the oil. He stares at the patterns traced inside his palm, then moves each finger one by one to watch the soap press out of the lines and slip under the water. It’s an odd but stimulating sight, and though it distracts Taeyong for a long moment, there’s such a thing as wasting time for him, so he keeps on looking.

When he goes to the monitor at the entrance of his room, the headache fades. Taeyong’s eyes linger on the last line of yesterday morning, then they trail backward on the screen to the previous few. A part of him wants to scroll up and try to count the most he can. Taeyong brings his finger to the switch and presses. The sound of the _click_ reaches his ears and makes him falter. He stares at the new line on the screen and replays the sharp noise in his head.

The clock shows 08:16 when he enters the hall. He goes to the mess hall, chooses his breakfast and eats. He takes an apple from the machine and leaves it in his mouth when he sinks his teeth in. He presses his tongue on the peel, tastes the juice, and tries to think of yesterday. It’s never something he does voluntarily, or often, but today must be one of those days. He takes the bite and chews slowly, remembering what he had for breakfast and dinner, what he did in the garden, where he went on the ship. It’s been a while since he ate an apple.

He walks inside the hall and looks up at the vaulting. When he glances back at the clock, it’s09:21. Taeyong makes his way to the garden and decides to turn the light blue. The hall’s marble walls fade to a pale colour. He picks up the shears from the floor and stares at the two curved blades, the shiny cutting edge reflecting the light. His hand folds and the blades close with a gritting sound. Taeyong repeats the action, listening to the snipping and clinking, feeling the handles in his palm. He examines the small shapes on the pivots, the red colour where the cold light bounces off, and his eyes move to the red numbers on the clock, and the red flowers in the row.

Taeyong comes closer to the light, grabs the stems, squeezes the leaves, picks the barbs, rubs the smooth stalks and smells the flowers. He lowers an amaryllis under his lips and breathes in, the dainty scent flowing down his throat and to his lungs. His chest stirs with the sensation, eliciting a forgotten feeling of liking, of attachment. They’re so beautiful. He brings the shears’ blades around the stem, and cuts it. There’s little resistance and the sound is curt. He raises the flower between his eyes and stares, unmoving.

He carries the bloom in his pant pocket and cleans the enclosure. For the half of the day Taeyong stays in the garden, going about his usual work, mixing, planting and cutting. He eats dinner a little later than usual, and when he finishes, he feels like taking a walk. His body carries him to the seventh floor and he finds himself inside the library. When he steps in, the headache suddenly arises. He stops at the entrance and looks around.

The room is square and small, no bigger than the hall. The shelves are built inside the walls and filled with books. There’s a compacted machine on the table in the middle. Taeyong approaches the first side of the shelves and stares at the books' spines. There’s a pulsing pain on his temple, but it’s weak. It does make him pause, however, when he raises his hand to touch the books. He tries to focus on the shapes but it makes his head hurt more. When was the last time he came here? He knows he’s read before, he knows he can read. Which of these books has he read? When was the last time he read them?

His fingers skim past the first few books. He pulls a dozen out but slides them back in. There’s one heftier book he takes out that catches his attention, when he notices the red string sticking out at the base. Taeyong stares at it, trying to stir up his thoughts, trying to remember. He opens the book at the marker’s page, and it takes him a few moments before he’s able to read the first paragraph.

 _The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time. The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled._ _So the Lord said, “I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.”_

There’s a trace of this story in his memory. He doesn’t remember its origin but recognizes the images the words and phrasing make behind his eyes. Taeyong’s voice in his head is also familiar. He decides to read it again, aloud this time. How long has it been since he’s tried to speak? He opens his mouth, moves his lips, pushes his breath out, and drags the words from the tip of his tongue:

“The Lord saw how great—the wickedness of the human race—had become on the earth,” he utters, “and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only—evil all the time.”

The sound is smooth, makes his throat vibrate. He hears his voice reverberate and instinctively raises his eyes. They glide slowly around the room, as if searching for something. Nothing—there’s nothing here. He closes the book and places it on the table. He waits, it’s silent. But his head keeps hurting and now there’s a spreading sting under his skin—what’s going on with him today?

His body moves on its own, dragging him out of the room. There’s something in the middle of his chest that’s opening, like a gap, and it’s demanding to be filled, to be closed; Taeyong walks to the control deck. He hurries when his head starts to become heavy, like he’s in a race against his thoughts that are multiplying, getting stronger and becoming apparent now. There’s hasn’t been so much going on in his mind in such a long time, he can’t calm down at all.

He’s almost shaking when he steps inside the control deck. He can hear his breathing in the room, this room that’s always illuminated, those bright lights that glare at him at the end of each day when he comes back. Taeyong crosses the room to the windows and sits on the swivel chair. It’s pitch-black outside as always, the overcoming sight hasn’t changed—he doesn’t know what he was expecting. He stares out at the emptiness and finally feels himself drain out. His thoughts melt away with the pain in his head. There’s nothing here.

When he comes back to his room, Taeyong is feeling _numb_. It preoccupies him because it’s not something he should acknowledge, the sensation isn’t to be aware of. But he doesn’t have any other word for it. He sits on the bed and pulls off his clothes. When he removes the amaryllis flower from his pocket, he feels a sharp twinge of pain from an odd angle inside his head, but it’s gone as quick as it comes. He places the flower inside the glass on the nightstand.

The lights go out. Taeyong slips under the covers and sighs into his hands. He’s exhausted tonight, and his body’s never been more tense, even if his head has emptied once more. Is it the loneliness? Is he trying to feel it again? Has it ever hurt like this? He looks through the darkness to see the amaryllis flower inside the glass. It’s hanging down.

 

—

 

_LOG 10_

_Time isn’t what we know it to be. Not here. The clock instructs that it’s been approximately 6 months since warp point, but that’s incorrect. I’ve been trying to calculate it for a while, after seeing developments on the garden. The equation has proven its success. I’ve never seen more beautiful flowers, especially the red ones. I’m excited! If the equation can work like this, I should be able to try foods next, then water, and maybe even other materials… Nothing will run out. This really is a miracle._

_About the time… From my calculations, the strain of the_ outer-space _is equivalent to the strain of time. I’ve tried to evaluate and compare it with the records on this ship, and from the looks of it… 1 year in the_ outer-space _should be equivalent to 270 years in the city time. It's been 6 months here, so more than 100 years for them, since I escaped. I admit I’m bewildered. I never thought I could experience something like this, but… I’ve also noticed something else. Something I’ve kept feeling recently… it’s like I can’t remember the previous weeks. I have my logs and research to refresh my mind, but that’s only for me… I wonder—is there something in the_ outer-space _that’s causing this? Is it the strain? This would mean the further the ship goes, the more our memory withers. So the strain of the_ outer-space _is equivalent to the strain of time, and equivalent to the strain in our psyche. I need to look into this more before it can do something to me. I won’t forget._

_Still… those flowers are really beautiful. They make me feel better each time I look too long outside. It’s always so dark, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. I can't look at it long because it makes me forget, but I think there can be happiness here. I think there can be belonging, and that I can make something new, with this equation. Time will tell. We’ll take it slow._

 

_—_

 

It’s dark. Taeyong opens his eyes and feels a spasm of vertigo when he doesn’t see the harsh light above the bed. He sits up and looks furtively around the room. What time is it? He’s never woken up in the middle of a night before. Something’s wrong—he can sense things. The air in the room has shifted and the silence has been filled with the most imperceptible buzzing noise. The emptiness has been disrupted. Taeyong can tell, he can feel it all of a sudden.

He jumps out of the bed and fumbles while putting on his clothes. His skin itches at the contact, and it makes him anxious. His body is cold, he’s dizzy, he’s identifying feelings that he thought he forgot about. How long has it been since he’s felt so stressed? He doesn’t even turn on the lights, just runs out of the room like he doesn’t have enough time. He falters when he passes the monitor, eyeing the screen apprehensively. How many lines has he inputted until now? He knocks on the switch and hears the sharp noise as he turns around and hurries down the corridor.

Taeyong finds himself inside the hall. He doesn’t know why he’s here first. It’s dark, save for the blue light from the garden’s panels, the rays moving in spatters on the walls. He bounds over to the center space and looks at the clock. 01:27, in glaring flashy red. It blears his eyes and his vision. He looks at the flower row. The amaryllises’ petals glow a faint purple under the blue light in the dark. His eyes fall to the marble floor where the pruning shears lie. He picks them up, weighing them in his hands, and turns around. The hall is empty, dark, silent. Taeyong feels it, he senses it, but along with something else. There’s something here.

He flinches when a sharp pain pierces through his head. His hands clutch the shears’ handles and he grits his teeth. Why does it hurt? What’s happening? His body forces him out of the place. He hooks the shears on the belt of his pants and hurries to the elevator. He goes to the third floor; the control deck is where he always goes, it’s where he always comes back to.

But when the doors slide open and he stumbles inside, Taeyong feels like he’s in an unknown place. He takes a few steps across before freezing in front of the swivel chair. His entire body rouses, and he feels a _tearing_ climb from his legs, through his stomach and all the way up to his skull, the grave moment his widened eyes fix on the windows. His blood _scratches_ , his breath is ripped out of him. The throbbing pain flares up in his head when he sees, there, cut out in the total darkness, a small metallic shuttle underneath the ship’s orbit.

 

—

 

_LOG 39_

_Something happened today. I went out on the control deck to verify the reactor level and I saw something outside. I thought it was a mistake at first, that I was actually hallucinating—but no, it was a ship. There was another ship on our orbit. I thought I was going to have a breakdown. It was unthinkable. I felt insane, it had been an eternity since that day I escaped the city… Is it them? The ship linked up before I could even do anything. How could I let myself be so careless? Everything was so good here, it was perfect, we had everything—why did I let my guard down this way?_

_…_

_It… It was Mark. I… I can’t believe he found the ship, I can’t believe he found me. He found me on my floor and I thought I was seeing a ghost. It had been so long… I was looking at him and talking to him. Mark… Mark… I still recognized him. He looked absolutely horrible. His skin was cracked, his eyes were sunken, I couldn’t believe it when I heard his voice. I… This is what’s happened back in the city, I suppose. I didn’t think it’d be this bad, and this fast. 10 000 years before the Sun dies… How long has it been since we left? The clock instructs approximately 4.7 years, which is about 1270 years in the city time. Has Mark been searching the_ outer-space _for me for almost 5 years?_

_…_

_He hardly spared me a second. He told me the same things. And then I remembered the feeling of that day I got on this ship. I remembered those days back in the city when I was so miserable, so lonely, when they locked me up and forced me to work. Mark hasn’t changed at all. No one has changed—he wouldn’t listen to me when I refused to hand it over. He never listened to me! He begged me to go back. He tried to get me back, told me he didn’t want the equation more than he wanted me. More than he needed me. “Come back. Let’s save the world together.” Such fucking lies. All they want to do is make war. Fuck—I couldn’t fucking believe it. This was a dream. Of course he became mad, he became furious, I couldn’t even understand what he was saying anymore in the end. I wanted to cry… He—he grabbed me. He tried to take me away. I could barely get my thoughts together and the next thing I heard was a gunshot, and then he was bleeding out at my feet. Fuck. I—what have you done! I’d told you to stay away, I’d told you I didn’t want you to get hurt… Why did you do that? God, no—Mark, Mark…_

_…_

_“They’re going to come for you.” That’s the last thing Mark kept saying before he signalled the ship. Who? Who’s going to come? Did he come to the_ outer-space _alone? Are there more people from the city with him out to capture me? The ship needs to advance as much as possible; I have to fix the reactor. But… what’s going to happen if more of them get on the ship? They’re all coming after me. They’re going to fucking kill on sight. How do I stop them? Fuck—how do I even get them to think for a second? Mark I knew and could talk to at least, but any other person will stop at nothing to get what they want. They’re not going to listen to me, they don’t care about anything but the equation. What can I do? Do I need defences? Shields? Weapons? No, what’s going to make them stop? What’s going to wake them up? What’s going to stall desperate men after only one thing?_

_…_

_…_

_…What do you want?_

 

_—_

 

Taeyong stares ahead. His body has gone still and turned to stone, but it feels like he’s moving. Something inside him is moving. He’s hyper-focused on the sensation as he keeps watching the incoming ship enter his orbit. His eyes follow its slow trajectory and the pain in his head moves along with it. Up, up, bit by bit. It feels like his thoughts are solid at the back of his eyes, dragging his whole mind out. It’s unearthing all of his nerves. Uprooting his memory. Taeyong’s body turns inside out.

The shuttle arrives inside the ship’s orbit, and he realizes it too late. When it computes, the shock is less violent than he expects it, but he staggers backward and trips over the swivel chair. The second Taeyong hits the floor, he feels his body shatter apart like a glass breaking, and everything floods out before he can brace himself. The pain sprouts from the pit of his chest, then _bursts_ , filling every of his nerves to the brim. A hoarse yell is torn out of his throat, and he shudders when he feels his neck constrict, when he hears his grating voice in his ears. He’s completely overcome in a matter of milliseconds, and for an agonizing moment he’s paralyzed, writhing on the floor and fighting for his breath as he bears the influx of information in his head and the rush in his body.

It wanes. When Taeyong’s eyes focus back on the white light above him, he feels nothing more than _alive_. Revived, resurrected, his senses restored. His vision is clear, his breath is like water streaming. The room is so bright, the floor is so cold, his hands tremble—he’s not in the same place anymore.

Taeyong pulls himself up and gapes at the space out the windows, gasping when he sees only darkness. Where’s the ship? Was it his imagination? No—he saw the shuttle, he saw its little gray shape move inside the ship’s orbit. It’s linked up. It’s here.

He gets up and runs out of the room. The walls and floors seem to be pushing against him, passing in a discoloured blur, making his head spin. He hears his footfall echo around him and he goes faster, harder, feeling his feet slam on the floor and forcing out the heavy noise. The air blows past him. His heart beats soundly in his chest. Everything’s so clear. He hears it. He feels it.

Taeyong reaches his room. He turns on the lights, throws himself in his bed and sits facing the door. His struggling breaths fill the silence, his heart is pounding in his chest. There’s a tense sensation inside his stomach and a prickle over every inch of his skin. What’s this feeling? Fear? Is he afraid? He knows he didn’t imagine the ship. It was there, the small gray shuttle, amiss in the black. Its irregular sight is burned in his eyes and he sees it without mistake.

Without looking away, he pulls out the shears from his pants and steels them in front of him. His vision focuses from the blades to the door of the room. There’s not a sound outside. Is he waiting for a sound? His eyes are aching—how long has it been? How long has he been awake? It’s so much and so sudden, overwhelming and his body can’t withstand it. He wants it to stop. He’s going to black out.

The buzzing sound dissolves into a low droning. It soothes his ears, lulls him down the high. He breathes in and unclenches his fists on the handles. His eyes remain fixed on the door as they fight the ache, the weight, but there’s nothing that Taeyong can do to resist it, even with the terrible and exhilarating thought that he isn’t alone.

 

—

 

_LOG 57_

_Everything has bloomed. Behold, the garden of Eden, the earthly paradise where roams the first man. I’ve been utterly captivated. I knew this equation could do good! Look what it’s made—this singular, splendid red beauty. Worth beyond beauty! I can’t stop looking at those amaryllises… And now I know that this equation is intended for nothing else than creating more of that beauty, more of that splendor and freshness. All these flowers and foods… It was made for_ life _. It was made for new life! Maybe… if the equation can work on organic matter, it could work on power sources as well. I could fix the reactor with it and the ship could warp again. It could work. But what should I test it on beforehand to assure myself…_

…

_It’s been approximately 6 months since Mark’s visit. Today was the first of many more visits, I’m sure of that. It was one of Mark’s friends. I recognized him, his wide face, his big eyes, even if he looked worse than Mark. I wasn’t on the control deck to see his ship link up. It all happened so fast. He came in the hall while I was working the garden. I went to hide behind the flower row, but to my surprise he stopped in front of it. It was horrifying because I thought I was going to die, I knew he saw me, he saw me through the leaves and I could see him too, but… I’m not who he was looking at._

_He completely stopped. He even lowered the gun he was holding. I saw something change in his dull eyes, something cross his rotting face. His face was suddenly like a flower opening. It was fascinating to watch unfold, I wish I could describe it — a weak, battered, poor lost soul becoming completely transfixed as it suddenly comes face with… you._

 

_I woke up from my stupor and found my gun. I shot him through the flower row. He died quickly, but not before signalling the ship. It maddened me so much, so I shot him a last time in the head. I regretted it, though, because you had to see it, you were scared and I frightened you more. Forgive me. Mark’s visit had already been horrifying and I know you were still trying to recover, you were trying to forget. Forgive me—I shouldn’t have done that, but I had no choice. I’m sorry._

_Still… that blooming, absorbed, spellbound expression—I’ve never seen something like it. Poor soul, I put his body away with Mark’s. They’re coming, there’s no doubt about it. How am I going to protect myself when they come? I need to hide on the ship, I need to hide the equation. I can’t fight them and I certainly can’t talk to them, and I can’t let them escape either… but it looks like they can be subdued. They can be… distracted. If there could be a way to immobilize them, to incapacitate them, I could overcome them, and the equation will be safe. If there could be a way to intercept them, to entrap them and leave no trace, like a black hole… Whatever in the universe could withhold anything so perfectly…_

_…_

_…The flowers are beautiful, aren’t they._

 

—

 

The lights are on. Taeyong opens his eyes. There’s an unsettling moment when he doesn’t understand why he feels so nauseous and agitated, until he touches the shears in his hands and remembers. He jolts up and lets out a breathless shout, then everything in the room shifts, from the air to the colours, becoming brighter and sharper. Everything surfaces inside him, his thoughts, his senses, each little feeling boring through his skin, and Taeyong is wide awake, feeling so invigorated it’s almost unbearable. It’s like he’s been awakened from a deep sleep.

Shears in hand, he climbs down the bed and, urgently induced by habit, goes to the washroom. Taeyong braces himself in front of the mirror and stares. It’s himself, without a doubt, the same shapes and bearings, but something’s not normal. It’s not the same. His hair is vibrant, his skin is dewy and his round eyes are black as marbles, glistering under the light. It’s like he could pick them out with his fingers. He touches his cheek, squeezes his lips and eyelashes, pulls out his tongue and glares at himself. He has difficulty remembering this face.

He places the shears on the edge, turns on the water and grabs the soap, but stops as he feels it slip between his fingers. It falls into the middle of the sink, blocking the water that’s swirling. Taeyong stares at it, and his thoughts suddenly decompose, turning to questions. Has this soap always been the same? Hasn’t he used it up before? And the water—how does it keep flowing out? Does he remember where it comes from? The sound of the gush makes his ears ring. Taeyong pushes his head under the water and startles when he inhales some through his nose. It drips down his jaw while he coughs harshly and feels the cold running pain in the center of his head.

When Taeyong looks back in the mirror, he looks even more unusual. His skin glistens, his eyelashes twinkle and his curved lips are shiny red. He’s— _good_. It’s a clear and attractive sight. Taeyong tilts his head and peers closer, bringing his dainty fingers to his reflection’s mouth. Is this him? He doesn’t remember looking this beautiful. Has he always looked this way? It’s been years since he could imagine another face.

He turns off the water and takes the shears. As he steps out toward the room's door, his stomach aches—he’s hungry. He hasn’t _felt_ hungry in such a long time, it was always by strict habit that he ate. But now the urge is so plainly obvious that Taeyong suddenly doesn’t understand how he’s gone by the days before. He imagines the taste of apples and sugar on his tongue, and his mouth waters. He wants to eat. He wants to go to the mess hall and make his breakfast. He wants to go—but the shuttle. The shuttle’s linked up, it’s here. Just the thought of something else, _someone else_ on the ship makes him breathless, makes him shake, makes his body blow up even more. Does he go out? What if something happens right as he opens the door? What if someone’s there?

Something _gentle_  in the back of his head encourages him, incites him out of his room. Heplaces his hand on the door, pushes it an inch and buries his eye in the slit, spying through the gap the empty corridor. Silence and space, always. Taeyong carefully opens the door and raises his head. There’s nothing, and it’s with curiosity that he receives the weak pang in his chest. What was he expecting? He moves his hand holding the shears out first, then exits the rest of his body. But he feels so _exposed_ all of a sudden as he steps out, it’s like the silence and space are watching him, it’s like he’s being scrutinized. Has everything always been so big, so empty? Why does he feel so laid bare, so helpless? To what is he revealing himself? To whom?

His first instinct is to go back in his room, but against all his senses Taeyong starts walking. He passes the monitor, takes a few steps, then stops and listens. Nothing in the air changes, there’s only always his presence's interference. He walks again, quicker this time, making his way across the bridge to the elevator. The only sound of footfall is his own, echoing in his head. There should be nothing—but Taeyong knows there’s not _nothing_. Because _he_ ’s there, and now this other ship as well. There’s not _nothing_ if he’s seen it, if he remembers it.

He makes it to the elevator and goes down to the ground floor. Just before the doors open, panic suddenly swamps him, he slides to the side and plasters himself against the control panel. The whirring noise resounds, then silence, again. He waits, petrified, for the thing that doesn’t come. Taeyong slowly slips out, stands still for a fearful moment, then bolts down the hall. He runs as fast as he can, as loud as he can—does he want to be heard? Does he want to be found?

He’s breathless when he stumbles inside the mess hall, legs burning in pain, and he collapses under the catering machine. He scrambles up and punches the sequences on the panel. Apples, strawberries and melon cubes slide out in a bowl. Taeyong grabs it and turns to face the entryway. He swallows the strawberry and melons, the juice running down his chin. It’s never tasted so good, so sweet, and he wants more. He chomps on the apple and lets it hang between his teeth. He stops.

What time is it? How long has he been asleep? What’s he been doing all these days, these weeks, months and years? He glances at the red pruning shears in his hand. He’s been growing a garden, he’s been eating and sleeping, he’s been lonely. He’s been alone. And now? Taeyong makes himself see the windows again, see the small shuttle in the middle of it, deforming the space, inside the ship, inside his head. He finally lets himself ask: could there be someone on the ship? Could they be on the floor right now? Do they know Taeyong is here?

 _Do I want them to know?_ He bites and swallows the apple as fast as he can, enough to choke. The taste is _rejuvenating_. All of his senses are tingling, and Taeyong’s never felt more awake, more alive. The feeling is so good, it abruptly reminds him of the beautiful flowers in the hall’s garden. Alone, exposed. The bliss turns to fear. He pulls himself up and sprints out of the room. His footsteps are a barrage on the marble floor, his ankles feel like glass cracking, but he pushes himself until they break, and if they break he’ll _scream_ , he’ll scream at the top of his lungs into the entire ship and he could be _heard_ , something could answer him at last—he could finally be _found_ inside this end of the universe.

Taeyong falls down in front of the amaryllis row. The light is blue as he left it but he can hardly see past his blotted vision. 11:43. There’s a tense moment when he can’t hear anything over his heaving, then he catches an echo on the other side of the hall. He stops breathing, his blood freezes and his body goes rigid, as hard as steel. _Toc-toc-toc-toc…_ Footsteps like his own but not quite as light. They’re heavier, _unfamiliar_ , and they’re getting closer. Taeyong can’t move. The sound is so clear, so _different_ , foreign and _incoming_ , it strikes him deep in his head and makes his stomach tear out in dread. _Toc-toc-toc-toc…_ Someone's here. Someone's coming.

Behind him, they’re coming behind him— _they’re coming!_ Taeyong’s blood shoots up his head and propels him on his feet. He launches himself toward the light machine and slams his fist on the shutdown switch. The blue glow blinks out, leaving Taeyong to the complete darkness, and to the noise of the footsteps that falter. Suddenly, something activates in Taeyong’s mind. It’s swift and calculating, sharpens his senses and brings his memory to a focus. He draws in his head the path to the elevator, to the corners on the floors that make the passages inside the ship. He sees it in front of his eyes like a blueprint.

 _Toc-toc… toc-toc…_ Tayeong turns around and runs. _Toc-toc-toc-toc_. There’s nothing discernible in front of him but black, yet he can feel the space, measure it, find himself within it. He turns left and right, his footsteps trailing behind him, chased by the heavy stomping, and he reaches the elevator at the end of the hall. Taeyong’s fingers scramble on the control panel glowing in the dark. _Toc-toc-toc-toc_ —the doors slide open and he throws himself inside. He punches the manual switch and the elevator shuts  at once. Taeyong glues his back against the panel, clutches the shears and braces himself. The next second, something collides onto the other side of the steel doors, the metal reverberating with a forceful but compressed sound, like fists banging on a surface. Taeyong lurches forward and clamps one hand over his mouth, then the elevator rises.

He’s choking. His heart is lodged in his throat and each beat is strangling him. He’s shaking so much it hurts, he’s going to tear a limb. So close—they were so close. What would have happened if he was caught? Where are they now? They’re going to wait for the elevator, they’re going to take it and come up, and they’re to come after him. He replays the sound of the footsteps in his head. _Toc-toc-toc-toc…_

The seventh floor. Taeyong bursts out and runs in the corridor. The elevator closes behind him and he hears it descending, the sound of the whirring disappearing down the ship. Taeyong’s face hurts, burns like it’s being stretched, and he realizes he’s smiling. He’s not alone. He’s not alone— _I’m not alone! I’m not alone! I’m not alone!_

 

—

 

_LOG 71_

_There are 21 floors on this ship. I’ve settled deep inside to protect my research and hide from our incomers. I’ve stopped looking outside, to keep my memory intact. I need to keep working, and pray that I don’t forget. It’s not at all good, being confined in here alone with nothing but my numbers and screens, but it’s necessary. I’ll get used to it. I have no other choice._

_I’ve begun the experiment, in order to fix the reactor. The equation has been synthesized into a formula that will be delivered into substances, like the foods and water. It’s worked on the garden. It should work on you. And then it should work on the reactor. Then the ship can warp again, it’ll be safe, and I can end this before too long._

_…_

_…_

_Today another man came. I saw his ship in the orbit from the cameras. He looked healthier and prettier than Mark and his friend, but still like a dead man. He also had a transceiver. He was communicating with others on a distant vessel. They’re coming. I need to act fast._

_It happened again… Incredible. One look and he was gone. I could see the same blooming expression in his face. He even turned off his transceiver. Unbelievable! He was entranced at once. Enamoured, captivated! He was completely at your mercy, following you on his knees, at your feet like an animal. I let it happen for a few hours because I was so fascinated, even if you were so scared, and I became scared in the end as well. I shot him out of your sight this time. But the transmission was still sent, before I could destroy the transceiver._ _Now they’ve seen it. They know of its worth. They want the equation more than ever, now that they’ve seen what it can really do, what beautiful life it can make… Is this desperation? Are the people from the city so hopeless and despairing, that one look of you is just enough to revive them? To make them break?_

_It’s like a spell, a spell of desire… Of course… of course, this red flowering beauty, this pure beauty, beautiful, you’re beautiful…_

_No one can resist you._

 

_—_

 

Taeyong enters the library. The haze in his thoughts is dissipating, but he’s never been more self-controlled, more lucid in his life. He can see and feel the empty air, he can taste it on his tongue. Even the silence seems to be drawing near him, he’s not surrounded by it anymore. He walks freely in it and in the space, everything is _on his_ body. He’s _awake_. How has he never felt this well before? Why doesn’t he remember this feeling?

He goes to the shelf and finds the thick book. The red string is there as he left it. He opens it to the page and stares at the printed letters. Where does this story come from? Who wrote this—somebody must have. Somebody that must have existed before him—before—before where? Before when? Taeyong has been on this ship for as long as he can remember, there’s no _before_. He lives on the ship, alone, adrift in the universe. But, suddenly— _why?_

His eyes sink lower on the page and he momentarily blanks out. Taeyong makes himself speak again. He wants to hear his voice, he wants to hear himself read. He wants to know he’s here.

“Now… the earth was corrupt in God’s sight—and was full of violence,” he whispers. He pauses. “God—saw how corrupt the earth had become, for all the people on earth—had corrupted their ways.”

Dialogue. God speaks. Taeyong halts when he understands that there’s someone else embodied in his voice. That he has to make a new form talk, that he’s aware of an _other_. What does God sound like? How does he speak? What voice should Taeyong give him?

“I am going to put an end to all people,” he declares resolutely, “for the earth is filled with violence because of them. I am—surely going to destroy both them and the earth…”

Taeyong closes his mouth and imagines it, _God_ in the room, watching him, talking to him, showing him the visions. His memory stirs, turns like a flower toward the light. What earth needs to die? What people are they going to end, what earth are they going to destroy? What does God look like?

“I am going to bring floodwaters on the earth—to destroy all life under the heavens, every creature—that has the breath of life in it. Everything on earth will perish. _But I will establish my covenant with you, and you will enter the ark—_ ”

The distant whir of the elevator reaches his ears. Taeyong's eyes fall down the page, he shuts the book and thrusts it back in the row. There’s a frightful moment when he stands frozen in the middle of the small room, completely unable to react, then he throws himself to the side of the entrance and crouches down, pressing himself as far as he can in the corner. He takes the shears and grips them against his chest. He forces his body to stop shaking and pushes the air down his lungs.

 _Toc. Toc. Toc. Toc._ Heavy, foreign, incoming. It’s here—they’re here. They’re outside in the corridor, Taeyong hears the steady footfall approach the room. There’s something else, like crackling—it’s static. The sound is distinct, clear and pitched, and Taeyong recognizes it suddenly. He knows this sound, he’s heard it before. It’s a transmission signal.

“I’m here.” The deep voice comes abruptly, Taeyong hasn’t a second to prepare himself. The sound explodes in his ears and makes his heart throb. His trembling body draws forward unconsciously, as if trying to capture the sound, to reach for the voice, seize it, consume it, swallow it whole. But it’s gone just as it comes, from nowhere, in a blink of a moment, gone— _it’s gone!_

Taeyong retreats impossibly further into the corner and sinks his teeth on his lower lip. _Toc, toc, toc, toc…_ They’ve stopped. The static increases, and out comes a second voice, lighter than the first, flowing out with the ringing sound of the transceiver.

“ _Yuta_ ,” the voice calls, “ _where are you?_ ”

“On the seventh floor. Maybe the eighth. I don’t see anyone.”

Taeyong hears himself gasp, and bites harder into his lip. He can understand. Each word ties to the next like a chain, and he can understand, he can decipher it. Two voices? Two people? The man’s calling someone else, but from where? Where do they come from? He’s in the corridor, he’s right on the other side of the wall, he’s moving through the space and silence like Taeyong; he’s alive, like him. _Yuta_. What’s that word? Taeyong doesn’t know it at all—is it his name? _Yuta—Yuta_ —it twirls and bounces amidst his thoughts. Colours erupt behind his eyes.   _Yuta—Yuta…_

Pain. His lip is numb. There’s a violent striking inside his chest that’s going to shatter him apart. He wants to scream it out—he wants to scream and jump into the entryway and show himself— _I’m here, I’m here!_ He’s here and he’s not alone in the space and in the silence, this emptiness that anticipatedly steps back. _Move back, move away from me!_ Taeyong’s no longer the anomaly. He’s no longer the defect. He’s the one on the ship, he’s the one living here, he’s the one who decides the space he uses and the silence he allows. Taeyong is in control, he’s free. _Taeyong is here._  

But now someone else is on his ship. Someone else is here. And Taeyong’s suddenly possessed by an urge, the desire for proof, to hear the incomer but to also see him, so he can know he’s not imagining voices, that he’s not alone with his thoughts. A presence to reaffirm his own.

 _One look…_ It echoes in the back of his mind. Taeyong turns his head and arches forward as much as he can. _Toc. Toc._ The empty space in the glimpse of the corridor is penetrated by a single hand, holding a black device. Taeyong’s lip splits. He widens his eye and his vision blackens around the appendage. Five long fingers, the shape of bones and veins, lines and creases. It’s animated—it’s moving. Taeyong sees each articulation, every inch of the pale skin fold with each slight movement. He stares at it, enthralled at the sight of a living, moving thing outside of him, outside of his own reflection, his own body.

“ _Be careful, Yuta,_ ” says the voice in the transceiver. “ _There’s something on that ship._ ”

The hand raises and Taeyong draws back. He still sees it in his head, big and sculpted, in the _flesh_. It sends chills down Taeyong’s spine. He imagines the skin behind the wrist, the arm that connects, then the chest, the waist, hips and legs… What does Yuta look like? Does he have parts like Taeyong? What colour is his hair? What’s the shape of his eyes, his mouth? How does Yuta move?

 _Toc, toc, toc, toc…_ Taeyong presses back and holds his breath. Yuta disappears behind the frame, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Taeyong listens until the very end. Where is Yuta going? Does he know Taeyong’s here? Why is he going away? Why is he leaving him alone?

He tastes blood. It reminds him of something, but he doesn’t know what. He brushes his fingers under his lips only to feel that the blood's dried on his chin. He swipes his tongue over it and picks the flakes. How long has he been here? How long has it been since Yuta left? Is he still on the ship? Why did he leave?

Taeyong shuffles toward the entryway and peeks out. Empty. He looks down the corridor where Yuta went away. _Where have you gone?_ Taeyong stands up. He hooks the shears on his pants and stares ahead. _Why have you gone?_ He takes a step and walks forward.

_Why are you leaving me?_

 

_—_

 

_LOG 84_

_A couple came today. I wonder if they caught on the artifice. Was this a new tactic? Did they think that it wouldn’t work if they were already committed to something? To someone? I saw from the beginning that I couldn’t make either infatuated. They were very much in love, it was undeniable. I’d forgotten about that feeling. How long has it been now—6.7 years, 1810 years for their city time. So many years for me to forget what love was supposed to mean. Kindness, devotion, sacrifices… From the moment I saw them, I knew that they would die for each other. So I used that._

_…_

_What a pain. They were difficult. Love is difficult. The blond one captured you first but he let his guard down. I decided to come out. I caught the red-haired one. I forced the other to let you go, told him to move away if he wanted his lover to live. That was a lie, of course, but he was desperate, more desperate than any who came before. I shot him in the legs first, put him on the ground… and suddenly I couldn’t take it anymore. I was mad, I was furious, I couldn’t feel anything but rage! Because you had to see this, once again. Please, forgive me… I tried, I really did. I’d had enough._

_I wanted justice for something. This was their fault, how dared they come and hurt you like this?How dared they think they could hurt you? I tied the red-haired one around the neck and threw him out the cubicle. Made the other watch him die. I watched the whole of it. Watched him choke and cry and die. His body floated in circles in the darkness. When I turned back, the other signalled the ship on his transceiver, then shot himself in the head. I didn’t even understand. Why didn’t he just shoot me? He could’ve shot me, he could’ve killed me and left the ship for the others to come and retrieve the equation afterwards. He knew he would die, though. Did he know I could be revived? Maybe he didn’t want to die so painfully at my hands. Or maybe he just couldn’t live on without his lover. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone._

_…_

_I feel… guilty. I think about those two, that love, so much love to kill and die for, and I feel regret. Of course, I’ll always care for you, I’ll always protect you, but these people didn’t deserve this. They were just caring for each other like us, they were broken souls sent blindly to this ship, one after the other. They’re at the end of their rope. Save the world? They’ll never understand. The world isn’t worth saving. To use the equation on it is a waste. The world is a waste!_

_There’s only beauty now, worth beyond beauty. There’s only new life now, for you and I. You and I… you and I… this is our secret._

 

_—_

 

Taeyong counts the time. Seconds, minutes and hours, every single moment he records inside his head, to see how much of them there are between him and Yuta. If Taeyong can’t calculate the space between them, he’ll calculate the time. He’ll find his way back to the grand clock and see how much time has passed since he’s heard Yuta, since he caught a glimpse of him, since he heard his voice. 1 hour. 16 minutes. 2 hours. 7 seconds. What’s aiming for? What does he want?

Taeyong sneaks across the alleys and corridors, hides in the corners only he knows, waits for the familiar _toc-toc-toc-toc_ to rouse him. Sometimes he follows Yuta across the floors, creeps on the path, walks just a little louder before sliding at the turn of a wall or passage, then listens to the footsteps falter, pick up and stop—sometimes he doesn’t. Taeyong starts to see the footsteps. He sees them as a blurry form in front of his eyes whenever he catches the echoing, and he follows that foggy image with the heavy sound. Yuta moves carefully. He’s almost as careful as Taeyong, but Yuta doesn’t know the ship like he does. He hasn’t been lonely like he was.

Taeyong skips noisily on the floor and hops inside a room when he hears Yuta halt, when sees the footsteps spin, and then Yuta starts running his way. His growls of frustration are increasing after each time Taeyong flees him, and he savours the angry sound. Yuta’s voice is kind but rough, so unknown, so exciting, and he compares it to his own. When Yuta runs past the room, Taeyong hums low in his throat, soft voice following a forgotten pattern.

“Mmm—mm—hmmm—” he breathes in, “hmm—mm…”

At the end of the corridor, Yuta lets out an angry noise. Taeyong keeps humming. What would it sound like if they spoke to each other? What does Yuta look like when he speaks? Taeyong never sees Yuta. The only glimpse of him had been his hand in the library’s doorframe, and it’s obsessed him ever since. That pale skin, those long fingers wrapped around the transceiver. Taeyong looks at his own hand and imagines it again. The only other animate person he remembers is his own reflection, but it moves as he moves, does exactly like him. Yuta won’t. Yuta is a separate system of consciousness. Yuta will move differently, he'll speak differently. He’ll look at Taeyong with his eyes, he’ll talk to him with his voice. He’ll move around him and Taeyong won’t even blink. Why doesn’t Taeyong go to him? Doesn’t he want to see what Yuta looks like? Is there such a thing as a meeting between them, inside this accumulated time?

 _What time is it?_ Taeyong exits the room into the empty corridor. Yuta’s gone again. Why does he keep leaving him? Doesn’t Yuta want to find him? What’s he here for? Taeyong walks slowly toward the elevator, when he suddenly senses something shift inside the ship’s walls. He freezes. Something’s stopped moving amidst himself and the emptiness. It’s familiar to the eve’s disrupting feeling, the moment the woke up and instantly knew the space had changed.

He looks at the doors and steps away. He takes the staircase instead, hurrying down to the hall. The lights are still out as he left them, and he navigates through the darkness, toward the clock’s bright red numbers at the end of the path. The garden’s perfume surrounds him as he approaches it. He stands in front of the clock. There, radiant and threatening, glares 20:22. But something’s wrong. Taeyong keeps staring at it, but it doesn’t change. He counts anxiously to 100. 20:22. He keeps counting. It doesn’t change.

The clock’s been shut off. How? Taeyong didn’t even know it could stop working. Why has it stopped? Fearful, he keeps looking. 20:22. _20:22_ —only one number between. 21. _21… 21…_ Taeyong’s head starts to hurt. He’s trying to remember something, something that’s missing. Which floor is he on? He has to go fix the clock, in the control deck. He has to bring back the time—he can’t bear the space without it. He can’t survive alone without those numbers. He won’t be able to count the interval between him and Yuta.

He goes to the third floor. He doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t see the footsteps, doesn’t know the time—and it drives him crazy. Without time, he won’t remember Yuta, he won’t find Yuta. He won’t have him. Taeyong hurries inside the control deck. He looks around at the panels and machines—how does he fix the clock? Why doesn’t he know how? His eyes then fall on a black square console. He remembers this object, suddenly. It’s a microphone. It connects to the ship’s broadcast system. When did he forget?

He picks it up, weighs it in his hand, and presses the key down with his thumb. Instantly, the output signal rings out, and the silence is filled with the distorted sound of the air. The ship is flooded. Taeyong immediately removes his thumb and staggers back. For a second it’s like the space has a voice, like it becomes tangible, dispersing its invisible body all around him. He glances furtively around, then gazes out the windows.

This time, he fights it. The darkness is frozen outside but Taeyong moves against it, resists it, hewon’t let himself be overcome, he won’t fall into it. It’s him and Yuta now, on this ship, only them. No room for silence or space, no more of this emptiness. He won’t let it take Yuta away from him. He won’t let the emptiness separate them. He won’t be alone anymore. He won’t forget.

Taeyong turns away from the windows. His chest and head burst open with a flowering feeling and he recognizes _joy_. He’s happy, he’s elated. A wide smile takes over his face as he walks across the bridge to his room. He’s light as air, heart rising as he thinks of Yuta and him on the ship. He’s never been so happy. Why hasn’t he felt this before? Why doesn’t he feel it more?

Taeyong arrives inside his room. He stands still for a moment, listening to the heavy quiet, then raises the console and turns it on. The distortion shoots through the ship, a low vibrating sound. Taeyong walks to the washroom. His steps echo around him. He’s here. And he’s also there, outside his room, and on every floor at once. Yuta can hear him, wherever he is. Taeyong is always with him, this way, just one _click_ away from his ears. They’ll never have to be apart.

Taeyong washes-up. He brings the mic close to the water gush. He makes the sounds and listens. Yuta will listen. He’ll know what Taeyong’s doing. He’ll know he’s washing his body and looking at himself in the round mirror. He’ll hear Taeyong undress, shut off the lights and climb into bed. He’ll hear the rustle of the sheet as Taeyong slips underneath. Yuta will know it. It’s like he’s right here with him, by his side.

Taeyong stares at the ceiling, the console still in his hand. He inches it toward his mouth and lets out one faint sigh. His breath flows out inside the ship. He closes his eyes and imagines Yuta hearing his low voice off the walls.

“ _Yuta_ ,” he whispers slowly into the mic. The name floats around, repeating. Taeyong’s fingers remove from the console, slipping down his stomach. Everything is so warm, so good. His heart is fluttering. The weight of slumber drags his mind out, but before he falls asleep, he opens his eyes a last time to see the glass on his nightstand. The flower has withered.

 

—

 

_LOG 100_

_Forgive me. I beg of you, forgive me—please, before you forget. I’m so sorry for everything, everything I’ve done—I’m so fucking sorry. Please forgive me._

 

_—_

 

Taeyong has a dream. He doesn’t remember the last time he dreamt, but he recognizes what is it. They’re in the garden, and it’s taken over the entire hall. There are colours everywhere, blooming, beautiful. Taeyong frisks inside it, laughing his heart out. He’s so happy. Yuta follows him inside, chasing him as usual. His footfall echoes everywhere. It’s beautiful.

Taeyong stops in front of the amaryllis row and turns around. Yuta is there, but he doesn’t see his face. There’s only a body and a slender hand. Taeyong smells the perfume of the amaryllises, then reaches out to take Yuta’s hand. He feels it between his fingers, prods each bone and vein, then puts it against his lips. The contact sparks through his mouth, shoots down his throat and to his lungs. He breathes in and feels the air flush out his blood. He sighs against Yuta’s fingers and shudders when the hand comes to cradle his cheek. Taeyong keens, leaning into the soft touch.

“Mmm…” Yuta embraces him. Taeyong shakes from head to toe. His hands climb up Yuta’s arms and rub behind his neck. He touches the skin and flesh, scents it, brushes his lips over it. Yuta holds him tighter. Taeyong’s heart opens, releases in his chest, his body spreads out in all directions and he throws his head back, stretching, widening, laying himself out bare and free. He opens his mouth and sings. “ _Ah—ah—ah…_ ” Yuta’s hand glides down his jaw to his neck, then to his collarbone. Taeyong grabs it and pushes it further. Yuta’s palm rests against his heart beating soundly out in the open.

 

Taeyong opens his eyes. The light above his head is harsher than ever. It’s so hot. He’s never felt so hot before, it’s like his limbs are melting from the inside. Taeyong sits up and pants. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and his heart is racing. His blood is bubbling under his skin, thrumming around his eyes and under his lips. It’s like a fever, hot and high, absolutely exhilarating.

There’s the ghost of Yuta’s hand above his heart. Taeyong touches the spot on his chest—it’s _blistering_ , hurts like a wound but feels so deliciously good, he can’t help but press his fingers and shiver as the burn spreads down to his gut. He feels himself arouse, inch by inch in his blood, and it’s as painful as it is pleasurable. It takes over him like a blow, violent and ruthless.

He looks at his hand, and his eyes switch it for Yuta’s. He thinks of Yuta’s slender fingers wrapped around the transceiver. Taeyong pushes it down his chest, the bottom of his palm leaving a scorching trace on his stomach. Yuta slips his fingers under his navel and wraps them around his hardened length. Taeyong jerks up, head digging into the pillow, his hair being pulledback as he arches up and lets out a breathless cry. He’s leaking all over his stomach. Yuta spreads his fingers over it, smears it on his thighs, then pinches teasingly.

“Oh—” Taeyong lurches onto his side, writhing against the sheet, then his knee knocks against something solid. It’s the console. Taeyong stares at it, wide awake. He rises on his knees and takes it. Yuta’s hand drags up slowly, hot and wet, from the base to the head, thumbing over the veins and pink skin. Taeyong can’t look away from it. It’s like he’s never seen his body before. He imagines Yuta behind him, pressing his chest against his back, breathing his deep voice into his ears, stroking him harder and faster. He’s here—he’s right here. Taeyong can hear him, he can feel him.

He brings the console to his lips and presses the button. He exhales shakily through his teeth and the pitched noise immediately floods the room. Taeyong’s here, he’s outside, he’s everywhere on the ship, _he’s everything_. Yuta squeezes him and his breath hitches, releasing into a whine. It rings in his ears.

“ _Yuta_ ,” he moans in response. “Yuta _—ah—_ ” The hot sound travels from all sides in the room, bouncing off the walls and down the corridors. Taeyong thinks of Yuta inside the ship, wandering alone, following his cries and whimpers, his harsh breaths and low moans. Will he find his voice? Will he find him and touch him, touch him with his hands, touch him like this? _Come on, come to me_. _Come to me—touch me—_

“Oh—” It hits him like an electric shock. Taeyong’s moan turns into a dry yell, and the console slips from his fingers as he arches up and spasms. His body collapses abruptly, his blood reversing its course, muscles tearing apart, every bone revolving, turning him upside-down and inside-out. A stinging chill breaks out like a wave up his neck and head, spreading from his roots to the tip of his hair. It splits his head in half. Taeyong breathes with all his strength, forcing himself to stay conscious. His hand melts with the warmth that spills over it, dripping down his palm and wrist. He shudders uncontrollably, one tremor after another, aftershocks uninterrupted.

He’s pulled out from his daze when he hears something from the deep of the ship. It’s Yuta, shouting. It’s a loud and furious shout, and it dies out quickly. Taeyong brings his hand to his lips, come slipping into his mouth. He breathes in and tilts his head into the hand, leaning into Yuta’s touch. It’s beautiful. Taeyong's awake and sprouting, blooming like a flower, opening on and on. It’s like he’s been cracked apart and assembled again. He’s been remade anew. If only Yuta could see him now. If only he could see how beautiful he is at the moment, see how good he feels. But he’s not here. Taeyong’s alone in his room. Why isn’t Yuta here with him?

He drags the black sheet out of bed with him and wraps it around his shoulders. He goes to the washroom and cleans his hands. His reflection has never looked more beautiful. Taeyong tongues the mess on his lips and spits. All red. He runs back out and puts on his pants. When he sees the red shears, he thinks of the red garden down in the hall, the red numbers on the grand clock, and finally the red string inside the book. Everything’s red.

He grabs the console and steps out of his room. The monitor at the entrance is always there. He allows himself to scroll up the screen. Lines, lines, only lines, all black one after the other, each one next to each other. He turns the swivel and keeps going up. There’s just lines. He presses the key. _Click_.

 

—

 

_LOG 105_

_Three people. I don’t know what they’re doing anymore, but it won’t work. They think they can overpower me? They think they can resist? All it takes is one look, and it’s over. But they don’t deserve to even see this beauty, and least to touch you. It makes me so angry at myself. I wish I could forget this rage, every time we go through this again. Every time someone comes on the ship. Every time they think they can just come and get the equation. Every time I wake up and know someone’s arrived. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of hurting you, I’m sick of this space, this limbo. I’ll kill them all. You have to forget._

_These three are easy. They’ll fight over you like beasts. They’re disillusioned and desperate souls, and what do broken, hopeless men want? Beauty. Everyone wants beauty! I’ll show them beauty. I’ll show them the most beautiful thing they’ll ever see._

 

—

 

Taeyong sings. He hums the familiar air from the bottom of his throat as he walks down the corridor. Yuta is by his side, looking at him happily, adoringly, his hand ghosting over Taeyong’s arm. Their voices echo together inside the ship. 

“Ah—ah—ah—” Taeyong breathes out into the mic, while holding the bedsheet over his hair. “Ah—ah—ah…”

He finds himself in the library again. Yuta’s hand moves to his neck, then disappears, leaving only a sharp pain up his skull. Taeyong’s hands slump down to his sides. Why is he here again?He’s alone in this room. Why isn’t he with Yuta? Why hasn’t Yuta found him yet?

He goes to the book, takes it out and leans against the table to read it. The page of the marker is still the same. Taeyong’s eyes skim over the words, he doesn’t want to read this anymore. But then he turns the page and stops. There’s an illustration right in the middle of the paragraph, a strange coloured drawing of shapes and patterns Taeyong doesn’t recognize. There are odd creatures of different sizes surrounding a wooden plank. But there’s something that catches his attention: the flowers. The flowers and leaves of the trees on the side. They look just like the leaves in his garden, and he’s never seen something so exquisite. The blending of the colours, the outline of the shapes, it’s like a moving picture. He touches it with his fingers and imagines the sprouts growing under his nails. So _raw_. He’s never felt this before.

And then something unfolds inside Taeyong. The room turns red and blossoms, the book’s pages fly out. He sees nothing but the leaves flowing in the air and the flowers blooming. It’s so beautiful, and he’s overcome. It’s drowning him. Unlike the emptiness that’s suffocated and benumbed Taeyong all his life, these flowers suddenly breathe life into him. He hears them flowering in his head. He sees his head open like peeling a fruit. It’s beautiful. _He_ ’s beautiful—no, he’s not, _not yet!_ There’s not enough beauty yet. He needs more to become that beauty, he needs to become as beautiful as those flowers. Yuta could see him then. Yuta will see that beauty and come to him at last.

The garden. The amaryllises in the hall, he needs to go get them. Taeyong leaves the book on the table and runs to the elevator. He takes out the shears and hides against the control panel’s side. The elevator sinks to the ground floor and he holds his breath. Where’s Yuta? He can’t be seen before he gets those flowers.

The hall is empty. Taeyong hurries to the garden. The red light of the clock is still on, the 20:22 frozen in time. It’s too dark. He finds the light machine and switches the white key. He turns around just as the area illuminates. Nothing, no one. Taeyong approaches the flower row and grabs the most stems he can into his palm. He brings the shears and cuts each one. When he raises the bouquet under his eyes, the hall turns red for a moment, as the flowers’ deep colour floods the space in his vision. He thinks of the withering amaryllis in the glass on his nightstand. How long have these flowers survived?

Blooms under his eyes, Taeyong turns around. Empty. He runs back to the elevator and returns to the library. He looks at the drawing in the book again and begins plucking all the petals. He gathers them in a glass and turns on the water conduit in the wall. He fills the glass half-way, then brings the shears inside it and stirs.

As Taeyong turns his wrist, his eyes circle around the table and fall on the compacted machine. He remembers this suddenly as well, it’s a record-player. His hand slows on the glass, then goopen the drawer underneath the table. There’s a box inside with lots of disks. He stares at them. Has he listened to these before? He pushes over a few, unsure of what to do, until he finds one labeled “ _space captain_ ”. Taeyong takes it out and frowns, trying to remember. He opens the machine and inserts the sheet inside the case.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but he’s not prepared for the sound that comes out into the ship’s broadcast. It’s lively, cheerful, a light instrument he no longer recognizes. He listens to the sequence of notes that make the music. It’s not something he thought he could ever remember. When the voice starts to sing, he completely blanks out.

_Once I was travelling across the sky_

It’s nothing like his or Yuta’s voice. It’s one of the most grating thing Taeyong’s ever heard, but it’s a different kind of wonderment. Another realization. Someone made this music like someone made the book. Words like a chain, making sounds, making meaning. When has he forgotten the existence of these things? How long has he lived on this ship?

 _And now I’m caught there until I die  
_ _Until we die_

It erupts. Taeyong feels the whole room blow up. He quickly takes the glass and drinks it. The wet petals press onto his lips and tongue, and the water flows down his throat. His ribcage fills. Taeyong raises the glass over his head, letting it spill on his face and hair. The flowers’ sweet perfume trickles down his neck. Red droplets fall from his eyelashes. He cards his finger through his hair then spreads them down his cheeks, jaw, throat and collarbone, coating every last inch of his skin.

 _I lost my memory of where I've been_  
_We all forgot that we could fly_  
_Someday we'll all change into peaceful men  
_ _And we'll return into the sky_

He feels it. The blooming, dilating, _rupturing_ sensation. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. Yuta will see him now. He’ll see him and hold him, he’ll breathe him whole, breathe him like a flower. Taeyong’s going to be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. The only thing he’ll ever see.

Taeyong takes the bedsheet, the shears and the console, and runs out for the last time. The song keeps playing on the broadcast, the heavy voice of man shrieking out into the depths of the universe.

 _Until we die_  
_Learning to live together_  
_Learning to live together  
_ _Learning to live together_

_Until we die_

 

—

 

_LOG 112_

_A boy. This is the worst one yet. This is unbelievably cruel. He doesn’t look older than 16. To think I was his age when I escaped… What do they think I am? Do they think I’m heartless, do they think I’m evil? Or do they think I do have a heart, that I’m good, that I’ll spare this poor child, take pity on our dying youth and hand over the equation. What do they think I am?_

_…_

_He stopped to look at you as well. But there wasn’t desperation or desire in his eyes, like the others. There was hope. It was pure, it was innocent. He looked at you like you were the savior. Like you were the miracle. Like you could end all the suffering in the universe. If only. But he did stop suffering. I saw it at once… He looked so happy when he saw you. When he saw all that beauty, he still had hope for the world. It really was a pity. Because I didn’t._

_I made it quick. I’m glad you didn’t see it, you didn’t see me. I hope this is the last time. I pray to God that this is the last time. 7.5 years now — 2020 years in city time. 8000 to go._

 

—

 

20:22. Taeyong looks at the clock, looks at the glaring shade of red, looks at time stopped before him and feels unrivalled. Even the garden row’s lacking in its beauty, most of the stems beheaded. Taeyong’s the one who has them now. Taeyong’s surpassed them. Now all he needs is to be seen, he needs Yuta to come to him, he needs Yuta to find him.

Taeyong walks inside the flower row. He pushes himself through the leaves until he’s on the other side, right under the clock, and he steps onto a large square lining the marble floor. The music on the broadcast dies out. _Until we die, until we die…_ Taeyong brings the console to his lips and presses the button. The distortion comes through and Taeyong allows it for a moment, lets it live, gives the emptiness one last taste of freedom before he takes over it, before he conquers the space and silence once and for all.

He hums softly, sensually. “Mmm—mm—hmmm…” The sound reverberates inside the ship. The walls shake under his low voice. “Hmm—mm…” He can sense the air around him remove itself, yield to him, finally. “ _Ah—ah—ah…_ ”

 _Where are you?_ Taeyong strokes the leaves in front of him. The rustling echoes on the broadcast. Yuta will know he’s here. He just has to keep singing until he comes. “ _Ah—ah—ah._ ”

 _Toc…_ Taeyong gasps into the mic. He lowers himself behind the row and peers through the leaves and stems. _Toc… Toc…_ Taeyong’s breathing slows, but his heart shoots breakneck in his chest. He opens his eyes as wide as he can and catches sight of the body through the flower row, in the middle of the hall. _He’s here!_ Yuta’s here, he’s coming, he’s going to see him.

 _Toc._ He stops. Taeyong quickly keeps singing: “ _Ah—ah—ah_.” He can see the blur of Yuta’s footsteps hesitate. _Come to me, come on._ The transceiver’s crackling is louder than before. Taeyong hears the other voice speak frantically, but it’s only a buzz inside his beautiful voice, inside the stirring of the garden row. Taeyong’s not going to let that call interfere with them. Yuta’s not going to talk to anyone else.

 _Toc. Toc. Toc. Toc._ The body approaches the row. Taeyong sees clothing. He sees Yuta’s arm and his hand holding the device. It’s time.

“Jaehyun, there’s someone here. In the garden.”

Taeyong removes the console and keeps humming. His hand pushes the stems and he steps inside the row. On the other side, Yuta goes still. The voice in the transceiver keeps on calling, but Yuta doesn’t hear it anymore. The leaves move, spread apart, and Taeyong inches forward, bit by bit, coming out. 

When he sees Yuta’s head and face, his heart stops. Everything stops. The universe comes to a halt and starts to spin around them, Taeyong and Yuta, these two people who found each other in the abyss of space, these two things that will come to belong together forever—beauty and its witness. Taeyong peers at this new face. Yuta has brown hair that falls to his eyes. His eyes are green like grass in the shadows. The look in them is _everything_. Taeyong has the distracted thought that he recognizes this strange expression. When Yuta looks at him, Taeyong keeps flowering, he keeps growing and blooming. He’s _real_ , and they’re real together, staring at each other, and Taeyong feels a part of his memory revive. These are what other faces look like. This is how you look at someone. This is how you talk to them. This is how you touch them. This is how you live.

“ _Yuta? Yuta! Yuta, what’s going on?!_ ” the voice shouts. Yuta is immobilized. Taeyong has him now. “ _Yuta! Yuta, what’s happening? Who is it?_ ”

Without looking away, Yuta lowers the transceiver and moves his lips. “He’s beautiful,” he whispers. 

Taeyong’s heart booms in his ears and his body rises up. He takes another step closer to Yuta and the shouts in the static turn to screams: _“What?! No—who are you seeing? Is it him? No! Fuck! Yuta, get away! It’s a trap! Yuta, it’s a trap! He’s the trap—”_

 _Click._ Yuta closes the transceiver. Taeyong’s head pulsates, and he feels himself smile.

 

—

 

_LOG 116_

_He shot you. He actually shot you. This man who came these last few days is the first one who didn’t fall under your spell. It took him hours to find you and when he did he looked at you and fucking shot you in the head. Not even a bat of the eye. Then he found a camera and stated the whole procedure, said who he was and told me to come out before he finds me himself._ _His name is Sicheng—I don’t fucking care. He shot you. He’s dead. I’m going to fucking kill him, and I’m going to make it hurt._

 

_—_

 

Taeyong remembers something. It’s a gun. He remembers standing in front of the flower row and there’s a man with wide eyes lowering his gun in front of him. Taeyong is standing between him and something, but he doesn’t remember what. It’s an image from a very long time ago. A time that he forgot.

Yuta doesn’t stop looking at him. It feels like hours that they stare at each other in silence. Taeyong can’t tear his eyes away either. Every second there’s something new to discover on Yuta’s face. A crease, a crack, another shade in his eyes, on his skin. He has a ring on his left ear. He doesn’t look like Taeyong at all, and it’s so lovely. Yuta is lovely. Taeyong is captivated. How has he survived all these years without company? How has he survived all these years without the memory of an _other_ , of contact? Now that he has another body to fill the space with him, to break the silence with him, there’s suddenly meaning to all those things. Taeyong remembers he’s human, and he remembers what it’s like to feel. And he feels bliss.

Without waiting any longer, Taeyong throws himself onto Yuta. He wraps his arms around his neck and tackles his chest. The moment when their bodies touch is the moment to end all time.It’s a collision, an explosion in space. Yuta’s body is so heavy against his own that it feels like he’s sinking inside him. Taeyong can absorb him and they can become one. They can be together forever until the end of the universe—but no, Taeyong doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Yuta inside of him, he needs him to occupy the space outside, so he can see him, hear him and touch him. So he can know he’s not alone. He needs Yuta’s body alone.

Taeyong buries his head into Yuta’s neck and breathes in. Real skin, hair, sweat and flesh. He’s not dreaming. After a few nervous moments, Yuta moves. His arms come to embrace Taeyong. Yuta’s real, and he’s moving against him. They’re responding to each other. Taeyong holds him tighter, then raises his head and noses along Yuta’s ear. His wet lips drag up his temple, printing a trail of red over his eyes. Taeyong exhales. “Yuta…”

The hands on his back grasp the black bedsheet. Taeyong feels the nails scratch his skin and he shudders. It sets his blood on fire, he’s entirely burning. His body is going to disintegrate. It’s so heavy, so full and good, he doesn’t know how he could ever live without it. It’s so perfect.

Taeyong draws back and leans toward his face. Yuta looks so big all of a sudden. His dark eyes take up his whole vision. He’s so lovely. Taeyong wants to see nothing else, and he doesn’t want Yuta to look at anything else. He cradles Yuta’s face in his hands and drags his mouth up in the space between them. He squeezes his cheekbones and presses his lips down his throat. He crushes their bodies together and moves. It’s thrilling, intoxicating, makes him lose his mind. Taeyong has to keep moving, he has to close all the emptiness around them, so Yuta can’t escape. So he’ll stay and keep looking at Taeyong, keep touching him forever. Yuta is completely his now.

Yuta’s hands suddenly slide to his waist, and then Taeyong’s being handled to the floor. The sheet twists underneath him as Yuta lays him down, then climbs on top of him. Taeyong grabs onto his neck and pulls him close. _Don’t leave me, don’t ever leave me._ Yuta breathes into his neck and moves his slender hands up his face. The red on Taeyong’s lips has streaked everywhere. _Don’t leave_.

 

They sleep. Taeyong drifts in and out of consciousness, but he’s always awake. He feels every movement beside him, Yuta’s coarse touches and his warm breaths over his mouth. When Taeyong wakes up, he caresses Yuta’s sleeping face. He brushes his brown hair, pinches his lips, pulls at the skin around his eyes. He trails his finger down his strong jaw. He could touch Yuta forever. He will.

Yuta wakes up and Taeyong starts to sing. They make eye contact. Taeyong stands up and lures Yuta toward him with it, like a string connecting their eyes. “ _Mmm—mm—hmmm…_ ” Yuta watches him with a dark expression. Taeyong recognizes it. Desire, hunger, thirst… Yuta’s eyes are like cavities waiting to be filled. Taeyong smiles widely. Yuta pulls himself up and follows him down the hall.

They go eat. Taeyong takes out apples and feeds them to him. Without ever looking away from each other, they bite into the fruits and swallow together. Yuta’s eyes follow the tug of his throat. Taeyong raises his apple in front of their mouths and sinks his teeth in. He pushes it toward Yuta's lips until he feels the resistance. Yuta looks at him for a tense moment, then drops his apple and bites into Taeyong's. The sound is crisp and curt. Yuta’s hands take Taeyong’s face and he starts eating hungrily, pushing against him. Taeyong chew on his side, juice spilling over his lips, dripping down his chest, he feels his teeth hurt enough to fall out until the core slips between them and Yuta’s full lips ghost over his.

Taeyong thinks he knows this feeling. Love. Where and when does he remember it from? He looks into Yuta’s eyes and his heart swells, growing impossibly bigger, impossibly more. The proximity pulverizes him. So little space between them, and no more time. _What time is it?_ Yuta takes him in his arms. Taeyong lets himself be seized. He hugs Yuta’s shoulders and rubs his lips over his head. “Hmm—mm…”

Taeyong wants to see the time. He draws them back toward the garden. Yuta follows him wordlessly. Taeyong skips down the hall, laughing lightly, turning around and shooting Yuta bright looks, happy smiles full of teeth. Sometimes Yuta’s face changes, turns somber or crude, almost unpleasant—sometimes it doesn’t. But when Taeyong arrives next to the flower row and looks at the clock — 20:22 — Yuta suddenly stops.

Taeyong turns around and feels something alter between them. Yuta’s eyes move from his to the amaryllis stems in the row. His expression turns. It isn’t lovely anymore. Taeyong doesn’t understand what’s happening. Why isn’t he looking at him? What can Yuta be thinking about other than him?

Taeyong approaches the row, trying to block the view, but Yuta comes right in front of him. Taeyong shrinks back at the force of the movement. He feels exposed all of a sudden, as if something in the air's being directed toward him, like something’s being aimed at him. It’s a threat. It’s an attack.

Yuta immediately speaks. “Who are you?”

Talk. Taeyong knows he can talk, he remembers he used to talk. This is a conversation, between people. He registers the question and finds the answer.

“Taeyong,” he responds. “Taeyong…”

It’s his name. And then Taeyong’s the one asking the same question. Who is he? _Taeyong?_ Who named him, where did he come from? Why is he here? Yuta watches him, listens to him, and to Taeyong’s horror he takes out his transceiver and opens it. 

“Jaehyun, I have the custodian.”

Something goes off in Taeyong’s head, but it’s outrage that possesses him first. Who is Yuta talking to? Who’s Jaehyun? Why is he talking with him instead of Taeyong? He reaches for the transceiver but Yuta pulls back, other hand flying to the back of his belt. He levels Taeyong with a glare, and it’s so _cruel_ that it roots Taeyong to the spot.

The static in the device resurges. “ _Yuta? Yuta, oh my god—are you OK? You have the custodian? Where is he?_ ”

“He’s in front of me.”

“Who are you?” Taeyong croaks.

“ _Yuta, kill him! Hurry! Kill him now!_ ”

Taeyong’s heart crashes. He feels himself flood with dread and he can’t breathe. Yuta keeps looking at him, and there’s pain in his eyes. “I can’t,” he whispers, “he’s too beautiful.”

The crackling erupts. “ _No! Fuck! Yuta! Kill him and get the equation! Don’t fall for it! Yuta, snap out of it! Wake up! Think about Sich—_ ” Yuta closes the transceiver. When the silence fall back in the hall, Taeyong’s completely broken down. A million thoughts break out inside his head, a million memories but it’s still not enough to close the hole inside his mind. Instead it makes every part of him rattle. His blood seeps through his skin. He’s shaking like a leaf.

Yuta looks at him unkindly. Tayeong doesn’t say anything, so he goes on: “Where’s the equation.”

“The—what?” Taeyong chokes out.

“The equation. Where is it,” Yuta repeats, “where’s your guide?”

Taeyong feels like he’s going to throw up his heart. He can’t think over the pain in his chest and head. Yuta steps closer, and his harsh voice is suddenly the loudest thing, the worst thing, it makes Taeyong want to cry.

“Where’s the equation? Where’s your guide?”

“I don’t understand!” he shouts frantically. “I... What—what equation? What guide?”

“Where are they?” Yuta demands.

Echoing. Taeyong swallows and chokes. What’s Yuta talking about? What’s this feeling coming back to him? What doesn’t Taeyong remember? “No, I—I’m alone here,” he says. “I’m alone.”

Yuta observes him. His voice becomes clear. “No, you’re not,” he responds, “there’s someone else on this ship.”

The light in the hall wavers. Taeyong slowly turns his head to see the end of the path, darkened, obscured, as black as a hollow. It’s making a sound. The black space that’s so wide and deep it pulls everything in, leaving no trace.

 

—

 

_LOG 121_

_Man does everything just as God commands him. I read this inside a book in the library, a famous story from the ages past. God destroyed all life on earth, save for this one vessel that carried the last of the humans and animals. They were tasked by him to start life anew. It made me wonder… Maybe… Maybe these years have really been a sign from God. Was I… was I tasked to make anew the world from scratch, with this equation? Can I really do that? Can I play God? No, it’s this equation—this_ equation _is God. I… I just wrote it down._

_…_

_I wonder what you think about. Each day you wander on the ship thinking you’re alone. Each day you do the same things, you forget, but you accept it. I'm using you, I'm really using you to protect myself. What are you thinking about, if you don’t remember? Are you content with this life? Perhaps you don’t even think of that, seeing how your memory is now._

_I come out when you sleep, I watch you everyday. It hurts me everyday to see you like this… I know you’re lonely, and I admit that I’m lonely too, here. I miss you. We have to wait many more years before humanity completely dies, before they stop coming on our ship, before it’s safe for me to come out, to be with you again. I’m always waiting for that day, every second of my life. Forget and wait for me, I beg of you... But then what? No one will ever bother us when it’s over, but what do we do then? Are we going to keep roaming in the universe forever? Are we ever going to find a place where we can be happy, where we can belong?_

_…_

_I can say that the experiment has succeeded. The equation has worked perfectly on you—I’ve even tried it on myself, it's beautiful—and now I can test it on the reactor. If I fix the reactor, we can go anywhere we want, anytime, make whatever we want and live forever… I guess I am playing God. Ah… What should I do then, as God? What should I do with this equation…_

_…_

_“_ The fear and dread of you will fall on all the beasts of the earth, and on all the birds in the sky, on every creature that moves along the ground, and on all the fish in the sea; they are given into your hands. Everything that lives and moves about will be food for you. Just as I gave you the green plants, I now give you everything. _”_

_Maybe… maybe like in this story, I can make life over. You know I used to believe in the world. I used to believe in the good, that we could salvage something in all this evil. Now I see something else… We mustn’t correct, but instead start anew! I’ve already made the foods, the water, the grass and flowers. All we need now is a new planet, perhaps, and humans to live in it. You and I, of course… and maybe every body on this ship. I could use the equation on them, when all of this ends. We could start over! This is the universe in the making. This equation will be the forthcoming. I have to define it properly, I have to give it a name. A name for growth, for dreams, for infinity, a name for eternity. I think I’ll call it the New Culture Technology._

_…_

_“_ And for your lifeblood I will surely demand an accounting… And from each human being, too, I will demand an accounting for the life of another human being.

“Whoever sheds human blood,  
by humans shall their blood be shed;  
for in the image of God  
has God made mankind. _”_

 

—

 

“Your name is Lee Taeyong. You come from the city on the other end of the _outer-space_. You were the assistant and custodian of the head scientist inside the city, who was the researcher and guide of a project made in aim to save the Sun; we had 10 000 years before it died. Before humanity perished. When the creation equation was finally formulated, you fled with him on this ship into the _outer-space_. To this day it’s been 2700 years since we’ve been searching for you.”

Taeyong remembers. It comes back to him all at once, like copying and pasting lines on a computer screen. It installs in Taeyong’s memory so smoothly, so easily that he wonders for a critical moment if he’s really not a robot, if he’s _real_ and an actual human being, no matter how far off from humanity he is. No matter how long it’s been, since he remembers.

He listens to Yuta speak and looks at the image on the transceiver when he shows it to him. There are two faces on the identification order. The first one is the scientist, the name “ _Lee D._ ” typed underneath the picture. The second one is Taeyong.

“You’re to hand over the equation now,” Yuta says, closing the device. “Where is your guide?”

Taeyong remembers, but he also remembers something else. When he remembers the scientist— _he was just a boy_ —he remembers his sullen face, and those rare smiles that, no matter how weak, made everything bright again. Made everything good and pure. _He_ was like the Sun, and Taeyong wanted nothing else but to protect him.

And when Taeyong remembers that, he finally remembers the cursed equation, and most importantly what they wanted it for. It falls over him like dead weight. Taeyong feels his blood boil. Every part of his body stirs up in anger, twisting painfully. He looks at Yuta, Yuta who’s no longer a stranger, who’s no longer an other, just an _intruder_ inside his ship, inside his space—and Taeyong lets it take over.

“No,” he answers, voice clear. Yuta’s eyes widen in shock. Taeyong takes a step forward and speaks like he never forgot. He’s wide awake. “You’re a liar. You say you’ll use the equation to save the Sun, but that’s not all. I know what you’re going to do with it. I remember everything. You’re going to make weapons. You’re going to make war. You’re going to annihilate the city, and even more after that, who the fuck knows.”

He remembers everything, the extinction, the evil, and it’s _glorious_. He sees the vision. It’s like he’s found the meaning of the universe. This secret that’s just his and the scientist’s. No one else. Not Yuta, not the city. Yuta is a criminal like the rest of them, all those who came before him, those who Taeyong remembers—Yuta’s going to hurt his mentor, he’s going to hurt him, he's going to hurt them. He doesn’t belong here. Taeyong has to get rid of him.

Yuta stares at him, stunned, then he scowls and spits out in rage. “You… You don’t know anything. Can’t you understand the world’s going to end? Can’t you see that humanity is dying? Everything's dying! Open your eyes! Your guide is using you! He has the power to save everyone and everything, and he refuses it! _That’s_ evil! That’s the ultimate sin!”

“It doesn’t matter how many mouths you can feed, how many people you can save, in the end you’ll go back to destroying each other, you’ll go back to killing each other. You’re only prolonging humanity’s sentence.” Taeyong takes a deep breath and seethes. “I’d rather let humanity perish than let it suffer.”

Yuta grabs him. Taeyong’s senses leave to instinct, and something like automatism. He wrests Yuta off with all his strength and strikes him in the face. Yuta staggers back with a scream and reaches for the weapon on his belt. Taeyong immediately goes to the light machine and punches the shutdown switch. Everything goes black. The gunshot resounds, then Yuta yells furiously.

Taeyong runs to the elevator. He turns exactly where he needs to, before he finds the control panel, opens the doors and throws himself inside. Yuta’s frenzied voice echoes behind him. When the doors close and Taeyong is alone in the lit compartment, he takes a second to think. His thoughts hang on while something surfaces. He turns to the panel and his fingers move on their own, inputting a long sequence. The elevator goes down.

 _Fear_ , unlike anything he knows. Taeyong remembers this horrifying feeling only once before, on a faraway day, thousands of years ago. The first day out in space. The first time he found himself face to face with the nothingness outside the windows. It’s the same feeling now as he descends to the floors he forgot were still here. He’s still here.

The elevator locks down. The doors open and Taeyong looks ahead at the narrow hallway. The light is dimmed and dark red, plunging everything in a crimson glow. Taeyong soundlessly removes the shears from his belt and walks forward, slowly. There’s a faint droning noise in the air, making his blood vibrate. Taeyong takes the shears’ handle in his right hand and advances, step by step, breath by breath.

There’s a room ahead, as well as a vault. _Toc. Toc._ He reaches the vault first and he feels a cold breeze blow on his skin as he approaches the metal door. A small glass window is cut out in the middle of it. It’s foggy, Taeyong can’t see what’s inside. Why is it so cold? He turns around and peers into the darkened room. Taeyong slips inside and looks. It’s a laboratory. There are screens everywhere, an entire row of them stacked against each other, and he sees the feeds that are playing. They’re cameras on the ship. Taeyong can see his bedroom, the library, the control deck and the hall.

There’s an electrical candle on the desk, giving a faint orange light. Papers, tools, tubes and glasses under it. There’s so much written on everything. His eyes find a picture pinned to the board against the desk. It’s faded, but he recognizes it. It’s him. Taeyong’s smiling widely while the boy kisses his cheek. It’s _him_.

The sound of something unlocking reverberates in the hallway. Taeyong jolts around, then freezes when he hears the light and soothing voice, the familiar air, flowing gently out in the red darkness.

_Mmm—mm—hmmm… Hmm—mm…_

He raises the shears and treads out of the room. The echo is haunting. He breathes with each step he takes, but it’s difficult to concentrate when he can’t see where he’s walking. Taeyong closes his eyes, inhales, and follows the voice down the hallway.

_Ah—ah—ah…_

Something heavy opens. Taeyong opens his eyes and sees a hatch on the ceiling in front of him, a ladder leading to the ground floor. He hooks the shears back on his belt, hurries to the steps and climbs up without looking back, calling after the soft voice and the song. “ _Ah—ah—ah…_ ”

He smells the perfume of the garden as he exits and catches sight of the red numbers on the grand clock. He's in the hall. He sees the thick shadows of the garden. He’s behind the flower row. The lights are still out. Where’s Yuta?

Taeyong drags himself up as quietly as possible. He circles the flower row and reaches the light machine. He brings his hand to the switch, then hesitantly draws it back, before finally pressing on the red key. The lights turn on, the hall bathing in red, but then Taeyong raises his head and sees the tall shadow against the flower row too late. 

He turns around just as Yuta slams into him, screaming at the top of his lungs. Taeyong wrenches up the hand holding the gun and Yuta shoots the vaulting. He drops it, but then his hands lunge for Taeyong’s neck, fingers crushing his throat. Taeyong's hands fly over his, he chokes on a cry and kicks him as hard as he can, but Yuta resists, and moves his face unnervingly close.

“I’ll let you live if you give me the equation and tell me this,” Yuta growls over his pained gasps, “my fiancé came on this ship two years ago. Where is he?”

Taeyong’s head _hurts_. His eyes roll back and he catches sight of the stems in the flower row. Taeyong removes his right hand and scrambles to grab the shears hooked on his belt. His vision is starting to fade. Everything’s red. Yuta rips one hand off his neck and catches his arm.

“Sicheng was right, you’re beautiful,” he grits out, eyes bloodshot, “you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He tears the shears out, draws it back and stabs them under Taeyong's Adam’s apple. The pain is razor-sharp and frigid, and it’s all Taeyong can feel. He's hurting, he's bleeding— _I don't want to die!_ Blood spurts out when Yuta withdraws, taking with it his breath and voice. Taeyong presses his hands against his throat and falls to the floor, thrashing up. Every attempt to scream and move his head results in excruciating pain, strangling him impossibly more.

Yuta’s head enters what’s left of his vision. The next second, two gunshots resound behind Taeyong, and Yuta collapses backward, screaming relentlessly into the hall. Taeyong hears the static of the transceiver being opened. Another person penetrates the red view in front of him. They’re watching Yuta on the ground. Yuta keeps screaming. The person's lips are moving, they’re saying something, but Taeyong doesn’t catch it at all. Five gunshots.

Silence. Taeyong's vision blinks in and out of darkness. When he finally focuses back, there’s blood bubbling in his mouth and he desperately needs to breathe. The person comes next to him and pulls him up. It’s beyond painful but Taeyong endures it. He lets himself be dragged down the hall, stumbling and stopping, fainting and awaking, for long tortuous minutes he forces himself to stay up, to stay alive, just this time.

They take the elevator to the seventh floor. They go to the control deck—they always come back here. It’s always so bright. Taeyong is dropped on the swivel chair that's folded back so he’s lying down. He stares at the white light, the halos under his red eyelashes. He wants to sleep.

There’s sounds around him. Shuffling, clinking, bubbling. Taeyong thinks he’s being asked a question, asked how his headache is. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Something about a man who came two years ago and who shot him in the head. Taeyong thinks of the amaryllis stems in the garden, the flower heads cut off. They’re not as beautiful.

 

It’s not a creation equation. It’s not an equation to make a new Sun. It’s a regeneration equation. It aims for the cells and reproduces, makes, multiplies, restores and revives. It's  _limitless_. The warp reactor’s been fixed. Taeyong feels something cool and liquid press against his throat. The swivel chair folds back up and Taeyong finds himself in front of the wide windows. He wants to see him. He turns his head but the hands move his face back toward the windows. Taeyong tries again, to no avail, as the hands tilt his head back gently. So he gazes wearily out in the space, only it’s not black anymore—there are particles of light spinning around the ship, shooting toward the windows.

The scientist stands behind him. Arms fall down Taeyong’s shoulders, then lock gently around his neck. A head presses against his, then Taeyong feels a tender kiss at the corner of his mouth. It’s so bright outside. Taeyong’s never seen so much light. Something’s put in his hand. His eyes fall on a transceiver, the signal disconnected, but there’s a sent transmission under the name “ _Jaehyun_ ”.

The scientist leaves the room. Taeyong stare out as the ship moves into warp. He closes his eyes on the flurry of bright colours flooding the space, and when he opens them again, everything is black.

 

—

 

_LOG 127_

_You saved me. You always saved me. I understand now. You were trying to protect me, when you shot Mark all those years ago, and when you first helped me escape the city. That day you gave me your hand, when you told me we'd run away to the_ outer-space _, when you told me you'd protect me until the end of time, and I took it without a second of doubt. I’ll always take it. I owe you everything. My life, my research, my love… You are everything._

_After tonight, I’ll cease recording. I’ll turn the clock back on after this. 10 years now. It’ll be over in a few dozen more. Then we’ll never have to suffer again. We'll be in peace wherever we go, I'll revive the bodies on the ship, we can be happy together, we can belong together, and we can live together, until we die. I want to thank you for everything, before you forget once more. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for loving me, thank you for understanding me, when no one else would. Thank you, Lee Taeyong, my protector, my blackbody, and until the end of time I am your leader, your mentor, your friend and your Sun,_

_Lee Donghyuck_

 

**Author's Note:**

> happy first tour NCT 127!
> 
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